Margaret Truman's Undiplomatic Murder

by Margaret Truman

  “I get your point,” said Brixton, “but Müller didn’t have a high-profile government job.”

  “High profile? No. But he was privy to a great deal of sensitive material.”

  “What about this other embassy staffer who’s been killed? What was his job and background?”

  Becker pointed to a file folder on his desk. “We received his personnel file before leaving Berlin. He worked here in Washington before being transferred to our chancery in New York. He held a midlevel job while here, primarily administrative. His duties at the chancery were roughly the same.”

  “Nothing high profile.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, was he married?” Brixton asked.

  Herrmann answered, “He was not married.” A smile crossed the German’s face. “I know what you’re getting at,” he said.

  “Homosexual?”

  “The victim in New York was thought to be homosexual, although he evidently was discreet about it.”

  “Stayed in the closet.”

  Herrmann nodded.

  “That’s two out of two,” Brixton said, referring to Müller and the New York victim.

  Donna Salvos again brought up the murder of the Polish embassy staffer, Adelina Dabrowski.

  “Yes, we’ve heard about that,” Herrmann said. “How terrible.”

  “She was a lesbian. She and her partner were planning to be married,” Salvos said.

  “And so you believe that her murder and our two employees’ were because of their sexual orientation.”

  “Not a bad bet,” Brixton said.

  “This may sound callous, but I prefer that scenario to one in which their deaths were for some warped political reason, terrorist assassinations,” Becker said.

  Either way they’re dead, Brixton thought but didn’t say.

  Herrmann, who’d already spoken to detectives from the Washington MPD, asked whether Brixton and Salvos had anything additional to offer.

  “Mr. Müller had a lover who works at the Spanish embassy,” Salvos said.

  “I wasn’t aware of that. Is she—is he a suspect?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned, but the police will have to decide that. As far as I know, Müller’s murder is the only serious problem your embassy has had recently.”

  “True, except for the recent death in New York.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Brixton said. “How does what looks like a bias crime on the street here in D.C. and another murder on the streets of Manhattan add up to terrorism? People get shot every day in big cities.”

  “Of course,” was Becker’s reply, “but you also must realize that we are engaged in a war with those who would destroy our democratic way of life. There may be nothing politically sinister about these two deaths. If so, we can move on to other concerns. But until we can definitively rule out a terrorist connection, the matter must be pursued.”

  “Of course,” Salvos said.

  “All I can say is that we are extremely grateful to have the help of your State Department,” Herrmann said.

  “That’s our job,” Brixton said. It seemed the only thing to say. Better than “No problem.”

  * * *

  Two days later the murder of another embassy staffer in Washington occurred. The victim was Antonio Conti, a middle-aged man who worked in the Italian embassy’s Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna (AISE) office, Italy’s military secret service. It occurred on Sunday evening as Conti left a restaurant after dining alone.

  He’d taken a long walk to work off a large meal and ended up in Meridian Hill Park, also known as Malcolm X Park, a twelve-acre green space between Florida Avenue and Euclid Street. Once considered a possible setting for a presidential residence, the area had fallen into disrepair and had become notorious for drug dealing. Still, the magnificent formal gardens within the park and its Italianate sculptures drew its share of admirers. Conti was particularly fond of the statuary, especially Joan of Arc, Dante, and the two statues that flanked the James Buchanan statue, named “Law” and “Diplomacy.”

  It had grown dark, and he was about to return to his apartment near the embassy on Whitehaven Street, just off Embassy Row, when he was shot twice in the back, one of the bullets piercing his heart. A few visitors who’d lingered in the park heard the shots and ran to where Conti lay dead at the base of the Dante sculpture.

  Brixton and Salvos spent time at the Italian embassy the day after the murder gathering information about the victim. They were told that he’d been at the embassy for seven years and was a highly regarded analyst. One person described him as a gentle man who loved history and Italian art. Another colleague portrayed Conti as someone with a small ego and large intellect. Everyone agreed that his senseless killing was a tragedy of the first order.

  Brixton called Mike Kogan following their interviews at the embassy and was told that he and Salvos should come to headquarters at four to file a report based upon the interviews. With two hours to kill before the meeting, Brixton split from Salvos, ran a few personal errands, including buying two shirts and a pair of shoes, and returned to his apartment to drop off his purchases. He was about to leave for SITQUAL’s offices in Arlington when his phone rang.

  “Hi, Daddy. It’s Janet.”

  “Hey, sweetheart. How are you?”

  “I—am—wonderful!”

  “I’ve been going with this dynamite musician, Daddy, soooo talented, a real musical genius.”

  “Yeah? What’s he play?”

  “Guitar.”

  “Well, that’s great, Janet.”

  “Daddy, Richard—that’s his name—Richard has come up with an idea for a music app that will make him millions, and he wants me, me, to work on it with him—but he needs start-up money and asked me to help raise some and…” She paused for breath. “And so I thought that maybe you would want to get in on the ground floor and…”

  “Whoa, slow down. You’re talking to the wrong guy, sweetheart. I don’t have money to invest in anything. I’m a working stiff. Remember?”

  “Won’t you even hear me out?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, I mean really listen to me. I can’t do it justice over the phone. It’s too—well, it’s too complicated, and I have some stuff that he’s come up with, a business plan and things like that. Can’t we get together so I can show you everything and—?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Okay. I have a meeting at State; should be free by five thirty. There’s a bar and restaurant with an outdoor café a block from State, on Twenty-third. Buy you a drink, an early dinner?”

  “That’d be great. I know the place. See you there.”

  AFTER THE BOMBING

  CHAPTER

  10

  With Kogan and the others gone from the apartment on the day after Brixton had returned from the hospital, everything was suddenly and eerily quiet. He opened the French doors leading to his small balcony and leaned out. Sounds of media on the street below drifted up to him. Parked across the street was a TV remote truck, its antenna extended. He closed the doors and went to the kitchen, where he looked in the refrigerator and freezer for something to eat, took out a frozen slice of pepperoni pizza wrapped in foil, and put it in the toaster oven. He took a half-consumed bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon from a cabinet, poured three fingers in a glass, and sipped as he leaned against the counter. He felt numb, drawn, exhausted, devoid of feelings and without the energy to think. His head and neck ached, and bile burned his throat.

  When the pizza bubbled, he put it on a plate and carried it and the drink to the balcony, sat in a webbed chair, and watched the circus below, which now included residents of apartment buildings who’d come out to see why the media had gathered. The first bite of pizza tasted metallic. He placed it on a table and finished the bourbon. He might have dozed off had he not seen the TV cameraman climb up on top of the truck and aim his camera at the balcony. Brixton successfully stifled th
e urge to extend his middle finger and returned inside, where he kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the bed.

  He slept fitfully, the ringing of the phone and the tinny incoming and outgoing messages on the machine keeping him from going completely out. There were two calls from Marylee, two from his journalist friend Will Sayers, another from Mackensie Smith, and a succession of messages left by the press. Donna Salvos called to ask how he was doing and offered to bring him dinner. He liked her a lot and enjoyed being paired with her on assignments. She was a no-nonsense woman whose simple hairdos, minimal makeup, and distinctly nondesigner clothing accurately mirrored her approach to life. He might have considered trying to turn their professional relationship into a personal one, except that she was more cerebral than he was. Besides, she was seriously dating an orthopedic surgeon. Better to keep it professional.

  He finally fell off the edge and slept until four.

  Returning the calls was a chore that seemed beyond him when he awoke, but he poured another drink, sat at his desk, and called Donna Salvos to thank her for offering to bring him dinner.

  “You holding up, Robert?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, considering I’ve had my legs shot out from under me. Jesus, Donna, this is like something out of The Twilight Zone. You’re too young to remember that but—”

  “No, I’m not. I watch all the reruns.”

  “Did you see the statement that Congressman Skaggs put out?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry his son is dead, but damn it, Donna, he was with the girl with the bomb, whispered in her ear, then split. He came out from behind the Dumpster carrying what looked to me like a weapon. What was I supposed to do, hug him?”

  “I don’t blame you for being upset, Robert, but—”

  “You believe me, don’t you, that the kid was there in the café?”

  “Sure I do, Robert.”

  “What about Mike?”

  “He— I suppose he does. He hasn’t spoken about it.”

  Brixton was disappointed in her response. He knew that his boss would speak about it; how could he not?

  “Thanks for the dinner offer,” Brixton said, wanting to end the conversation and not challenge her. “We’ll keep in touch, huh?”

  He knew that he should call Marylee back, but couldn’t summon the will. Instead, he returned Mac Smith’s call. Annabel answered. “Robert, how are you? We’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Sore but nothing terminal.”

  “We heard about your daughter. We’re so sorry, Robert.”

  “Thanks. Sometimes I believe it, but most of the time I’m in denial.”

  Mac came on the second phone. “Holding up?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure. The alternative is worse. I got your messages and wanted to get back to you.”

  “What can we do to help?”

  “I can’t think of anything,” Brixton said. “The docs told me to rest up. I don’t have a choice. I’ve been put on paid leave.”

  “Want to come here to recuperate?” Annabel asked.

  “I may take you up on that,” Brixton said, “but not now. The media vultures are at my door, so I think I’ll just hang out here.”

  “Do you have food? We can bring you something.”

  “Thanks, but not needed. There’s a slew of takeout places that deliver. I haven’t turned on the TV or radio. The president was supposed to give a speech about the bombing. Did you see it?”

  “Yes, we did,” Mac said. “I’m sure it will be repeated all evening.”

  “What about Congressman Skaggs? He was supposed to release a statement.”

  Mac and Annabel’s hesitation said to Brixton that what the congressman said wouldn’t be something that he wanted to hear. It was Mac who said, “Aside from offering his condolences to the victims and their families, he talked about his son’s death and—”

  “Mentioned me?”

  “Yes. He’s threatening to hold a congressional hearing, but that’s another matter. Congressman Skaggs is, as I’m sure you know, bombastic. Look, the offer holds for you to come here while you rest up. We have the spare bedroom and—”

  “I’ll let you know,” Brixton said. “Thanks.”

  With that call ended he turned on the TV news, where an anchor was leading into a replay of the president’s speech. Brixton gritted his teeth as he waited for President Jack Shearson to come on the screen. Brixton liked Shearson. He seemed to have been more forthcoming than his opponent—or most other politicians in Washington, for that matter.

  “Here’s what President Shearson had to say about the horrific suicide bombing yesterday,” the anchor said.

  “My fellow Americans,” Shearson said from the Rose Garden, where he was surrounded by members of his cabinet, including top officials from Homeland Security, the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon, all appropriately grim-faced. “The first lady and I extend our sincerest condolences and offer our prayers to the families of the victims of the senseless tragedy that occurred yesterday. It was the work of a warped young woman, whose motive at this juncture is unclear. But I assure you that why she committed this cowardly act that killed innocent American citizens will be unearthed, and that those behind her action will be identified and subjected to swift and sure justice. Every resource of my administration will be brought to bear to root out those who have so little regard for innocent life. They will be identified, and they will pay the price. I also extend our prayers and thoughts to Congressman Walter Skaggs and his family for the loss of their son, Paul Skaggs, in the aftermath of the bombing.”

  The TV anchor followed by reading the statement issued by Walter Skaggs, the Mississippi representative, the words scrawled on the screen over a photograph of the congressman. Skaggs had wielded immense power in the House of Representatives for more than thirty years. Red-faced, overweight, and with a southern preacher’s style of oratory laced with southern phrases intended to mitigate the venom in his attacks on others in Congress—and lately in particular on President Shearson—his statement read:

  “To the families of those whose lives were snuffed out by yet another Islamic zealot for whom life isn’t worth more than loose pocket change, I pray that you find comfort and solace in your faith and in your fellow citizens, who will be there for you in your darkest hour of need. I truly share your grief. My own son, Paul, also lost his precious life in this savage attack on all we hold to be decent and true. But his death, at the age of twenty-two, was at the hands of one of our own, a federal agent licensed to carry a weapon and who has said that my son was an accomplice in the bombing. Not only was he unarmed and gunned down in cold blood, he’s been slandered and libeled by this same agent, who is employed by a private security agency known as SITQUAL, funded by our State Department. I will not rest until my son’s name is cleansed of this outrageous assault on his character, and until this trigger-happy agent is no longer able to abuse the powers granted him.”

  Brixton swore under his breath and snapped off the set. Up until reading and hearing the congressman’s statement, he’d felt defeated, the air gone from him, in a meltdown. But anger and resolve replaced those defeatist feelings.

  He called Marylee, whose anger at him had abated. She tearfully spoke about the need to make funeral plans for their daughter and asked him to come to her house the next day to discuss it. He told her that he’d be there first thing in the morning, hung up, and called Willis Sayers at the Washington office of the Savannah Morning News.

  “You’re alive,” Sayers said.

  “I’m not sure,” Brixton said. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.”

  “Hey, buddy, I understand. Look, I feel terrible about your daughter. I’ve got two of my own back in Savannah and—”

  “Just as soon not talk about it, Will.”

  “Sure. I want to get together with you. Where are you?”

  “My apartment. The media ghouls are out in the street training cameras on
my balcony.”

  “‘Media ghouls’? Present company excepted, I presume.”

  “Most of the time. I’d suggest we meet up tonight, but I need some time here alone. How about lunch tomorrow?”

  “I’ll cancel a date I already have. Noon, twelve thirty?”

  “I’ll be with my ex-wife in the morning. Make it one.”

  Brixton hadn’t been hungry since returning home from the hospital. But as evening approached, he developed a sudden craving for Chinese spareribs and shrimp fried rice. He called the Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood and placed an order to be delivered. In anticipation of its arrival, he made himself a martini (with gin, of course, straight up and shaken) and awaited the arrival of his dinner. A half hour later his intercom sounded. “Delivery,” the voice said into the box next to the building’s front door.

  Brixton buzzed him in and waited for the knock. When he opened it he was face-to-face with a young Asian man carrying the greasy brown bag of food—and a small tape recorder.

  “Mr. Brixton, Jerry Chi from WTOP radio.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Just a few questions, Mr. Brixton. Did you have any idea that the man you shot and killed was Congressman’s Skaggs’s son?”

  Brixton tried to grab the bag from him and shut the door, but the reporter hung on to it and wedged his foot inside. “Just a few minutes of your time, sir,” he said.

  “Gimme that bag,” Brixton growled.

  “Then answer my questions,” the reporter demanded.

  “Like hell.” Brixton opened the door slightly, then slammed it against the reporter’s foot. Simultaneously he ripped the bag from his hand.

  “I paid the delivery guy for that,” the reporter said, “and tipped him, too. Come on, just a few questions.”

  Brixton opened the door and held the bag up in the reporter’s face. “You’ve heard that there’s no such thing as a free lunch?” he said, a grin on his face. “Don’t believe it.”

  With that, he slammed the door again against the foot of the reporter, who pulled it back, allowing the door to fully close.